


love is a game, might as well play me

by jiusngs



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Character Development, Heavy Angst, M/M, Morally Grey Characters, Slow Burn, but for now, i'll add the tags as i go along, jaemin is an assassin, who underestimates himself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:47:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25861576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiusngs/pseuds/jiusngs
Summary: Raised as a weapon, Na Jaemin is given a job for the first time in years: gather the needed information, kill their biggest investor's—the "King"—son, return to the institute, finally a champion worthy to grow as a successor.He's fired up, determined and constantly aware of every little thing, but this guy's son... he's got a little too much bite in him, and an equal amount of bark. Okay, sure, whatever, Jaemin is more than happy to play along, he's flexible.The nagging at the back of his head? He ignores it, despite it telling him to shut. This. Down.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Na Jaemin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	love is a game, might as well play me

**Author's Note:**

> hellooooo!  
> this fic has been in the works for... many, many months and, although this is only the prologue (basically just one huge dump of an intro), i'm very excited to finally (finally!!!) be posting it. this may end up being an incredibly painful slow burn as this includes character development and little secrets hidden within secrets, so take heed. otherwise, i'm just here for shits and giggles as i let you all suffer through this

“ _Shit.”_

The word slithers past his lips, reverberates in his ears. There’s a lump stuck in his throat that digs and digs like a shovel threatening to break stubborn dirt. He grabs hold of his shirt, drenched in sweat, fans himself until he feels the heat slowly ebb away. He eyes the silver combat knife lying next to the bot, barely visible in the dark owing to only the sliver of light creeping in through the crack in the door. 

He’s dry-heaving, ready to vomit up his breakfast. Dizziness eats away at any sense left in him, reducing him to shallow breaths and wobbly knees. But he wants to try again. He wants to prove his worth. His body won’t allow it, and he would be a fool to give any divulgence that publicises the fact. His shoulders drop like the beads of sweat down his temple.

The lights above him flicker on with a loud crackle, momentarily blinding him. He’s cautious when opening his eyes again, does it slowly in order to regain his vision, only to blench against the brightness. 

“ _Jaemin_ ,” His name is called through the intercom, ricocheting off the walls. Jaemin glances skyward, looking up at the glass panel separating those who observe from himself. “It’s been days and you still haven’t completed this station.” 

Jaemin’s inhales are sharp and unsteady; he can't reply yet. He rakes a hand through damp hair and tears his gaze away from the panel. “I know,” He forces out, voice hoarse from disuse.

“And you still haven’t done anything about it. There is a certain level of advancement you are expected to make and in the past few weeks, you have done nothing but let everybody down.” 

Jaemin keeps the silence, clutches onto it for dear life. Once the Espiers conclude that there won't be an answer, there's a heavy sigh instead. 

“We’ll pick this up again tomorrow.” 

The intercom clicks off and the door to Jaemin’s right slides open with a deafening grind. 

His train of thought comes to a pause, vision blurry as he zones in on a spot on the wall. His head still aches with a memory of his knife flying out of his grasp. He comes to his senses when he hears the Espiers’ hushed chatter as they pad down the staircase. 

Jaemin bends to grab the knife lying at his feet and deems it a miracle his knees don’t buckle. The frown on his face deepens as he trudges across the room, but schools his expression to one of higher manner when he remembers he isn’t alone. Irritably, he shoves the weapon into his belt and walks out of the room.

It's been three days, someone of his age and ranking should not be stuck on a section of training for _three days._ He's attempted, reattempted, reattempted again by using different methods of approach, but it’s too _dark_. The bots always manage to get the upper hand and send his weapon whirling. He’d much prefer battling it out with a human, but he recalls how, on more than one occasion, he’d found himself with his cheek pressed to the cold ground, his opponent pinning him down with a practiced ease he still hasn’t mastered. He remembers the blood trickling from his nose, down into his mouth. The taste of it reappears with the memory, the sound of his knife clattering to the ground plays on a constant loop in his ears, in his mind, in his sleep. 

Three-quarters of the way is possibly the furthest he's managed to get with the training bots. There's that last bit, the part where if it were in real combat he'd already be dead, that he just cannot clear. He’s never felt disappointment so strong, disappointment not even radiating from himself, but rather from everybody else. It seeps into him, feels like the drizzle of honey until it thickens, ramming itself down his throat and curdling into a knot. He feels sick to his stomach.

“Your father has requested to see you.”

_My father_. Of all things he needs to hear, anything regarding his father is not one of them. With one last swipe of his shirt to his forehead, he drops it. He looks around before meeting the guard’s eyes with his own half-lidded ones. 

“In his office?” The man nods. “Thank you,”

Jaemin tips his head and makes to walk past him, but the guard wraps a firm hand around his arm. 

“I have to warn you,” he whispers diffidently,“he hasn’t been in a very good mood as of late.”

“When has he ever, Kunhang?”

“I just thought I’d let you know… friend-to-friend.”

Jaemin smirks, looks him over. “ _Guard_ , Kunhang. You’re one of our guards.”

Jaemin doesn’t wait for a response. He pushes past Kunhang and aims for the clanky metal stairs, taking his time to reach the top before climbing the second flight. It’s dimly lit and every step he takes echoes. There’s no hiding anywhere.

He comes to a halt at the end of the following hallway. The door stands ajar, but Jaemin knows better than to simply waltz in. He knocks three times softly before peeking his head through the crack. His father waves him in.

Jaemin finds one of two seats untucked from the underside of the desk and slips into it. “You wanted to see me?’

“Yes,” his father says, licking his index finger and flipping through a cluster of loose pages. “I have a job for you.”

Jaemin’s back straightens. He hasn’t been assigned a job in nearly a year. “Which entails?”

His father takes his sudden interest into account with barely a noticeable glance. The face he plasters on is akin to one of pity. “An investor—the _King_ ,” he says, “more specifically, his son.”

Jaemin ignores his own ignorance and leans forward in his seat, hands grasping at the armrests. “What about him?”

He’s heard the hush-hush going around. The King, merely an alias belonging a businessman of great wealth. Too cowardly to be someone to look up to, but he is one of the most important investors Jaemin’s father has, and is a relatively popular topic where he lives. Jaemin has never once heard of him having a son.

There’s no reply, not for a long while. His father continues to shift papers around, acting as if this is another one of their casual father-son discussions. He turns back to the papers in front of him, straightening them. “You’re going to be going to school.”

Jaemin falters, lips parting, then closing again. “What?” He manages to mumble with great difficulty. His father smiles in amusement at the reaction. Jaemin doesn’t understand what he finds so funny. “You’re just sending me off to school? After almost eighteen years of me never leaving the institute?”

“It will be healthy for you, Jaemin,” it’s his attempt at a mannerly discussion. Healthy is not bringing your son up to be a means of war. Jaemin is a weapon, nothing more, nothing less.

“How—how would this benefit me?”

“You have no friends.”

Jaemin stills.

In all honesty, it’s not the most straightforward thing to ever slip his father’s tongue, quite far from it, and it doesn’t hurt, not like it should. It’s not completely true either, Jaemin has one friend—Jisung—used to have a few more, but he recalls them either being pulled out of the institute or sent to another when they were all still kids. Still, one is a number, and a very generous one at that, under the circumstances.

He wants to snap back that he’s not meant to have friends, that this is the life he’s been forced to lead, the life he’s grown so accustomed to. If anything, Jaemin savours the moments spent alone. He doesn’t _need_ anybody else.

Jaemin leans back in his seat. “And… you want me to what? Befriend King’s son?”

“Not exactly, but it would be beneficial if you do.”

“If I may ask the reason?” He slathers a fresh coat of spit onto his lips.

His father looks at him like he’s been waiting for the question. He keeps Jaemin’s gaze steady on his. “The King is indebted to me—has been for nearly five years now, Jaemin. I’ve given him ample time to pay back what he owes. He’s ignoring all attempts we’ve made at contacting him.” He leans forward over his desk and lowers his voice, “Do you know how much he owes me?” Jaemin shakes his head. “A lot, Jaemin, a _lot._ ”

There’s no way to respond to that in a way his father would deem dignified. He wants to ask why the King needed so much in the first place, if it’s money taken from one of the many other jobs his father upholds above ground or money taken straight out of his pocket. Jaemin has no clue how his father’s negotiations work, and he has yet to ask. He doesn’t feel as if he’ll be getting out of the dark soon. 

A million thoughts run through his head, all at once, there’s no pick and choose with what rolls off his tongue. “What does his son have to do with this?”

The smile that stretches on his father’s lips is almost scary. “He generates it all—he is the _family’s_ biggest investment.” Jaemin, confused, shakes his head. “Everything that child does, every success, every tournament won, more money is generated. He is nothing more than an easy way to make bank.”

Perhaps Jaemin and this kid will get on; a weapon and an investment, raised like pups to sit when told, attack on command. 

Jaemin quirks his top lip up in disgust. “Does he know?”

“Not likely,” he replies. “It’s a sick game they have, the higher powers, they like to see which of their children can bag the most. They’re all in on it, you see, this _King,_ ” he speaks the lie like aloe has been pressed to his lips, “has lost what little faith in his son he once had. He believes he is unable to rise above the others, so he thought, why not cheat a little? And he took our money. He’s still not where he wants to be. I’m not sure how much you’ve managed to pick up on over the years, Jaemin, but I’m sure I am correct in the assumption that you know I do not deal out favours.”

Jaemin does know that. His mind still reels, the gears turning at a hundred miles per second until it all gets too much and he’s worried he’ll blow a fuse. He squeezes his eyes shut; he’s still tired from today’s session, he’d give all ten fingers to be out of this room and in his own right now, freshly showered and under clean bedsheets. The thought of being there soon comforts him enough to peel his eyes open again. 

“What do I have to do?”

“Ah,” His father releases a steady breath and smiles down at a chunk of papers, pulling one from the stack to spin around and slide over to Jaemin. Jaemin takes a moment to scowl at him before glancing at the page.

“What is this?” he asks.

“Information,” His finger lands at the top of the page. “Everything you’ll need to know, everything I want you to gather.”

Jaemin skims through it all, wanting to get the gist. It’s when his eyes land on the word _terminated_ that he has to pause and reread the last few sentences over. “You…” he mumbles, runs his tongue across his lips again, “You want me to kill him. Cut off a source of their income.”

It’s quiet again, but that’s a good enough answer for both of them. Jaemin’s surmise is exact and he knows it. If this is his father’s way of sending a warning to the family, he wonders what the next step would be. If the King has any more kids stashed away somewhere, he’s going to have to grab them and run.

The colour drains from Jaemin’s face and he’s positive the life has been drained out of him too. A wisp of a memory reminds him of fire and the smell of burning flesh. 

“I’ve said nothing but good things about you to all my colleagues,” his father breaks the silence, carefully at first, then rushing his words, “so I don’t expect any more disappointment, understand?” Any _more_. No more of the disappointment his son constantly brings. “Do you understand?” he repeats more sternly. 

Jaemin must have nodded, he’s too out of it to tell. 

“Good,” His father rises from his seat. “You’ll read through what I need you to do, _memorise_ it. Once you have, burn this,” he slides over another page, “you burn it and ensure that not a single remnant is left behind. I know you’ve been struggling recently, but I am entrusting you with this. I will see you here again tomorrow, same time. Continue with your training and do _not_ let me down.”

He stops at the door, hand hovering above the knob, and turns to Jaemin. Jaemin stares back.

He wonders what his father thinks of the dishevelled boy in front of him, the one he has to call son. Is he presentable? Is he only something his father thinks of as mandatory? Jaemin runs through his memories, jumps back to a few weeks ago when he’d been associated with a new word: petulant. He hadn’t understood at first, and he regrets asking. Years ago he’d confused the memory of blood singeing his tongue with the tears brimming his eyes. What spilt over was hot and deep crimson, only the pure rawness of his throat to bring him back to his senses. It had felt like that.

His father leaves.

A new warmth coils inside of Jaemin's stomach, unfamiliar as he continues out of the room, heading to another section of the institute for further training.

He bites down on his bottom lip; he's hungry to impress.

* * *

Jaemin had been right about the feeling: his bedsheets are freshly washed, cold as they press against his naked back and calves. His hair is still damp from earlier’s shower but he can’t bring himself to care about the way it bedews his pillow. He doesn't hate the fact that he’s been caring less and less lately.

The tank to his left bubbles and he flops his head to the side to watch the fish. They swim serenely, all small and neon in colour. The decor of the tank itself an array of pink, blue, yellow and green—all squeezed perfectly into the cube. He thinks it’s the most normal thing he owns.

He doesn’t know how much time he spends staring at it, but it calms his rising nerves and allows him space to think to himself.

The situation is tricky, but he knows what he wants to do, knows what he _has_ to do. Part of him feels relieved, elated even, that his father entrusts him with such a task. 

Jaemin is sick of letting people down. He’s going to get this one right.

**Author's Note:**

> wow, noa, you've actually learnt how to properly use dialogue tags! well done!
> 
> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/sungsies)


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